


Violets

by thehoyden



Category: due South
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-06
Updated: 2010-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-05 21:42:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehoyden/pseuds/thehoyden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The letter that arrived that morning had not been entirely unexpected, but its contents had been wounding nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Violets

The letter that arrived that morning had not been entirely unexpected, but its contents had been wounding nonetheless. "Dear Ms. Thatcher: We regret that your status as a Canadian national would make it problematic to place a child with you at this time…"

Not unexpected, no. But this was a private sorrow, one to which she had no wish for her subordinates to bear witness. The closest she'd come to doing so had followed her cautious courtship of Fraser, when she'd been informed by her physician that her chances of conceiving a child were virtually nonexistent. The day Fraser had finally responded to her overtures, she had been forced to backpedal furiously, rather than divulge her deficiency.

And now, no adoption, not while she was stuck in this godforsaken country. She had felt her eyes watering  
traitorously all morning. After Turnbull brought her a third cup of tea she had no intention of drinking,  
accompanied by tea cookies he usually reserved for honored guests, she gave him a list of errands and all but shoved him out of the Consulate. He'd been alarmed and visibly unwilling, but this too, was not unexpected – Turnbull was really quite sensitive and emotionally perceptive.

The Consulate doorbell rang, and she waited for Fraser or Turnbull to get it. By the third ring, she belatedly realized that she was alone in the building.

She reached the door and flung it wide. On the doorstep was Francesca Vecchio, bearing a covered dish of something that smelled absolutely heavenly.

Francesca looked grimly determined. "Is Frayzh here?"

Naturally she was here for Fraser. Beautiful Italian women bearing home-cooked dishes never appeared on the Consulate doorstep for Meg Thatcher.

"No. He's liaising with Detective Vecc – with your _brother_ today."

"Oh." Francesca's shoulders slumped. There was something in way she was standing in the middle of the foyer, in the way she was still clutching the covered container, in the way that she looked like this was just one disappointment too many. A suspicious sniffle escaped her.

_Oh lord, don't cry - if you cry, I'll cry, I've spent all morning trying not to_, Thatcher thought  
desperately.

But one sniffle gave way to several more, and then Francesca's shoulders were shaking. Alarmed, Thatcher  
retrieved the dish before she could drop it and stowed it on top of the reception desk. Not a moment too soon, because Francesca all but hurled herself into Thatcher's awkwardly outstretched arms.

Francesca sobbed in her arms, quietly and brokenly, as some part of Thatcher had been longing to do herself. Francesca was slighter than herself, so that her tears dripped, burning hot, at the base of Thatcher's throat. She'd nearly forgotten what it was like to be trusted with this kind of momentary weakness, how it felt to be elected a suitable comforter and safe haven solely on account of being a woman.

Francesca was warm and soft in her arms, and her hair smelled faintly of vanilla. She rubbed soothing circles on Francesca's back, like she'd seen friends do with their children.

"I was going to get married," Francesca said finally, talking into Thatcher's shoulder. "I was going to get over Fraser, and get married, and have beautiful babies. And after we thought he was dead, I thought maybe I was just never going to get over him. I was so _happy_ to know he was still alive, I thought if I just tried a little bit harder…"

Thatcher absently stroked the ends of Francesca's hair, and remained silent.

"But I don't know even know what he wants, or who he's looking for."

Thatcher thought she knew, or at least had a good idea. And it wasn't dark-eyed Italian women – she suspected, rather, that it might be wild-haired Polish men. But Francesca didn't need that particular concern heaped on her plate at the moment.

"You could still…you could still have children," Thatcher said eventually, though speaking of it was almost enough to break her heart. "You don't have to be married to do that."

Francesca looked up at her for the first time. "Do you ever think about it? Having kids, I mean?"

And that was it. That was it. All her careful control, eroded entirely by a gentle question and eyes that could have belonged to a Renaissance madonna. She felt it like ice cracking, tears seeping down her face. How absolutely wretched to be reduced to wanting the one thing which any woman was supposed to be able to do, what some spurned, and others treated as commonplace.

Francesca pulled them both into Thatcher's office, and because she couldn't stand just then to stay the words out loud, she offered the letter to Francesca.

Francesca read it, and embraced her again, offering back the same comfort received earlier. After a while, the tears stopped, and they both made good use of the expensive box of tissues that Thatcher kept on her desk.

"Our makeup's ruined," Francesca said, examining Thatcher's face critically. "I brought lunch – we should eat it, don't you think?"

Over truly excellent manicotti and a bottle of wine that was technically a gift to the Consulate, Francesca said, "You kinda surprised me today. I didn't think you could, you know, do that."

Thatcher looked at her steadily. "Am I to be made of stone?"

"No," Francesca said hurriedly, placing her hand on top of Thatcher's.

"You're touching me," Thatcher blurted out.

Francesca didn't seem inclined to move her hand. "Tonight. You should…you should come to dinner. At my house."

Thatcher stared at her.

"Well. It's not really _my_ house – it's our family's house, and my Ma and sister and brother-in-law and, um, Ray, - we all live there. So, if you wanted to, you could come to dinner – "

"Yes," Thatcher interrupted, never mind that they'd only just finished eating a feast meant for Fraser.

Francesca favored her with a dazzling smile. "Great! That'll be just…great."

Thatcher escorted her to the front door of the Consulate. "Should I bring something?"

Francesca hesitated. "Just yourself," she said finally, but the way she said it made Thatcher think that herself, just as she was, was finally more that enough.

It was possibly the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to her. They were still standing near the door, and the hand Thatcher had on Francesca's shoulder somehow moved to cup Francesca's cheek. It wasn't much of a stretch to lean slightly down and press her lips to Francesca's. It had that feeling of wonder, of delighted shock, of promise.

They heard the door open just in time to separate. Turnbull greeted them both and then took his place at the front desk.

Francesca looked flustered and enthusiastic at the same time. "So, seven o'clock?"

"I'll be there," Thatcher said. Francesca gifted her with another beautiful smile before slipping out the door.

Behind her, Turnbull delicately cleared his throat. "Sir, I picked up your dry-cleaning. Would you like me to order flowers?"

"For what, Turnbull?" she asked absently, a tone of waspishness returning as she gazed at the door Francesca had just left by.

When Turnbull said nothing, she turned around to seem him smiling. A very conspiratorial smile even. "Violets, perhaps?"

Thatcher felt her traitorous face blush. "That's…very perceptive, Turnbull."

He smiled bashfully, and picked up the phone.


End file.
